


Remembering Forward

by QuietCuppa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Child Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Abuse, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-08 02:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8827612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuietCuppa/pseuds/QuietCuppa
Summary: This is all Theon’s fault. Theon was the one who invited the fortune teller into the castle, to Lady Catelyn’s horror. He is the one who made crude jokes about her anatomy. Who laughed when she said she would show them their future, if they were so eager, even as Lord Eddard rose with apologies on his lips and Robb made to usher her out of the hall.Jon looks at anything but Sansa, trying to block out the images of a future together that are suddenly as clear as the first time he sparred with a real sword, or when he and Robb pranked their younger siblings in the crypts. Only they aren't his siblings. The memory of her taste on his tongue comes unbidden when he catches a glimpse of her, and he knows he is going  to hell.





	1. The Setup

**Author's Note:**

> I am fascinated by the idea of bringing people, real or fictional, forward in time to see their future. This is my experiment with how the characters, as they are at the beginning of the show/books, might react to my imagined end of the series. 
> 
> That said, it didn't fully hit me until I started writing this how problematic the ages are. Sansa and Jon are at that stage where a few years make a big difference. So even though there isn't any underage activity, the fact that both now recall future events made me add the underage tag.

Jon looks at anything but her, trying to block out the future that is suddenly as clear as his first memory of sparring with a real sword, or the time he and Robb pranked their younger siblings in the crypts. Only they aren’t his siblings. He wants to shrink back where no one will notice him. Not that this is difficult. He is used to avoiding Lady Catelyn’s glare, and few people pay attention to the bastard.

Not yet.

It is strange how his future self didn’t notice the change. At Castle Black his certainty in his abilities drew attention, as did his insistence on speaking out and, later, his command. After his resurrection he felt forced into leadership, into his first crown and his larger second one. But now he understands his own agency, and it started when he road out of Winterfell and stopped hiding in the shadows.

Or is it when he will ride out? His future feels final, like his past, and it’s bloody confusing as hell.

A flash of red catches his attention, and he sees Sansa darting between Theon and Robb, who is lunging at the Ironborn, practically frothing at the mouth. Instinct carries Jon forward, responding to Sansa’s demand before she even makes it.

“You fucking traitor. You swore to me that you were my brother, and you killed them.” Jon grabs his brother, his cousin, using his shoulder to force Robb back. “You killed us all. I should mount your head on a spike and feed the rest of you… Get off me Jon.” He meets Robb’s gaze, steady in the face of his wrath, and for a second he thinks Robb will attack him next. Then he hears her voice, shrill with angry tears.

“Stop it! You’re ruining everything.”  She stomps her foot, every bit the girl that she is, scared and afraid. But in his mind’s eye he can see the future woman as well, like the after image when you stare at a bright light, and she is awe inspiring. She commands attention. She can sway a room with a word or a glance. And then there are the whispers and touches just for him. The taste of her mouth and her cunt. The feel of her legs wrapped around his hips, urging him on…

And his focus shifts to the girl, and he knows he is going to hell. He is wrong, and he is sick -- torn between throwing up and stepping forward to wipe the tears off his not-sister’s face. Only this girl would never touch him.

Jon looks around, and realizes everyone is frozen. Lord Stark, who died before any of this came to pass, is wearing a worried expression, caught between the spectacle in front of him and his wife’s devastated face. Bran is thoughtful, and for the first time Jon realizes how frustrating that all-knowing countenance can be. Somehow his future self will never see it that way. Rickon is on the verge of tears. But it is Arya’s calculating stare that alarms Jon. That look, combined with her almost surgical swordplay and adherence to her own moral code, often leads to sudden death or deaths.

Sansa’s voice drops, pleading with her brother: “he saved me.”

She is wrecked. Robb has no idea what happened to her, but he is frightened. Jon doesn’t blame him. He wishes he didn’t know either.

However, if any of them are completely destroyed, it is Theon. It’s not just that Jon can see Reek. Theon has transformed into Reek: frightened and pathetic, with waves of shame rolling off him, so powerful that even in his anger Jon feels a flicker of pity.

But only a flicker. This is all Theon’s damn fault. Not just Robb and Lady Catelyn’s deaths, the loss of Winterfell, the fracturing of the Starks, and even by extension Sansa’s marriage to Ramsey and Rickon’s death, but this moment. Theon was the one who invited the fortune teller into the castle, to Lady Catelyn’s horror. He is the one who made crude jokes about her anatomy. Who laughed when she said she would show them their future, if they were so eager, even as Lord Eddard rose with apologies on his lips and Robb made to usher her out of the hall.

Sansa swallows back her sobs, and he wants to tell her not to say anything. It never happened. Hasn’t happened. Won’t happen. But she pushes on, shielding Theon the way no one shielded her.

“After they married me to Ramsey...” It is clear she doesn’t want to look at her parents, or Jon, keeping her eyes locked on Robb’s. When she receives nothing in response, she clarifies: “Bolton. Roose Bolton’s bastard, and for a short time, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North”

Jon can hear a strangled gasp from Lady Catelyn, but Sansa goes on, her words gaining force and her chin beginning to tilt up to its usual, haughty place. How did her pride, which tormented him as a child, which in his darker moments he called selfish, eventually become one of the things he loved most about her? That self-assurance that she was better, worth more, worth something, carried her through unimaginable suffering. Joffery and Cersi couldn’t stamp it out. Ramsey may have broken Theon, but he never broke Sansa. Jon would draw on that confidence when decisions weighed on him. Her strength would see him through wars and their rule. Maybe he really didn’t have agency in his fate. Maybe Sansa stitched it together like one of her dresses. Like the cloak she gave him when they left Castle Black.

“He took their flayed man sigel literally. Of course, there are ways to slice a person without killing them.” She picks up speed, her voice transforming into the cold, hard steel of future Sansa. “Believe me, I know.” No one is breathing. “Theon took me over the castle wall. Without Theon, I never would have made it to Castle Black.”

“Jon.” Lord Eddard’s face is white. Jon is afraid he will see gratitude in his eyes, so instead of looking back he finds a spot hovering above Sansa’s left shoulder. Lady Catelyn is crying. She would claw Jon’s skin off if she knew the things he did with her daughter later. The way Sansa moaned his name as he lost himself inside her, planting pieces that she would birth, and nurse, and nurture: babes with bits of each of them combined into something unique and whole. The thought of his children comforts Jon as he tries to push out the truth of his wife’s words.

Sansa is not finished. “If you want to know more about the way Ramsey liked to cut off body parts, you should ask Theon.” She turns, and Jon can see a tremor shaking Theon’s body, as though he is waiting for a blow to strike. “He knows better than anyone.”

The full implication of her words and what they mean for Theon’s manhood sinks in, and they seem to wake up younger Sansa, who gasps and covers her mouth. Jon can feel Theon’s shame as Robb and Lord Eddard shift uncomfortably. Are men really so shallow that this still distracts them after everything Sansa said? But then future Sansa dances behind his pupils, and damn his filthy soul, maybe they are.

Where Sansa withdraws, Lady Catelyn, steps in. “It’s not enough.” She is practically spitting at Theon. “So you will never have sons. I lost three because of you, and if it wasn’t for you my daughter wouldn’t have needed saving.”

“One.”

It is Bran. He is perfectly calm, but his words still cut through the room. “You lost one son. Osha” he starts, but sensing the confusion adds, “the wildling woman Robb and Theon captured. She hid Rickon and me in the crypts until she could smuggle us out of the castle with Hodor. Theon burned two farm boys to cover up our escape.”

Lady Catelyn clutches her oldest son, and Jon thinks she might collapse without Robb holding her up. A different sort of distance separates Jon and his children, but just the thought of losing one of them makes him want to transverse the years and gather them in his arms.

“I can’t decide if that’s better.”

“Arya.” There is a wary exasperation in Sansa’s voice, with a hint of annoyance, which is comfortingly identical in every time.

“I’m glad that they weren’t Bran and Rickon. They are my brothers.” She glances over at Bran. Jon can’t decide if she is hoping for forgiveness or agreement.

“She’s right.” And now Theon is jumping in, practically begging for more punishment instead of keeping his mouth shut. “They were…”

“Stop.” Lord Eddard didn’t necessarily raise his voice, but his command brings everyone to a halt. “Explain to me what is going on.”

It is Bran who answers, and this time Jon is grateful for his omniscient cousin. How quickly did he become comfortable with that word? Cousin. But then Bran, maybe more than any of them, has two selves: the boy with the bright smile who dreamed of becoming a knight, and the solomon three-eyed raven.

“After you…” Bran falters for a moment, before speaking again in older Bran’s voice. “After you die, Robb will call the banners. The Northern lords will declare him King, and he will win every battle before being betrayed by the Greyjoys and killed, along with mother, by the Boltons and Freys.” Lord Eddard looks broken.  It’s everything he feared. “Arya will escape Kings Landing and eventually make it to Braavos, where she will serve in the House of Black and White before returning to Westeros with her own idea of justice.” He raises an eyebrow at his sister, but presses on before any questions can be raised. “Littlefinger will conspire to kill Joffery and smuggle Sansa out of Kings Landing, eventually giving her to the Bolton’s to re-establish her claim on Winterfell. He knows the Bolton’s will never be able to hold the North, but whatever plans Lord Baelish had to advance his own position end when Sansa takes his head.” Lady Catelyn chokes. “If it helps, she will also feed Ramsey to his hounds.” It does not help. Or if it does, it raises a whole other set of issues. “Jon will rise to become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch before being killed, but a Red Priestess will bring him back. That’s how he is able to leave the Wall and retake Winterfell with Sansa.”

Finally Robb breaks in, but in only manages to get out an incredulous “this is not…” before Bran stops him.

“I can’t lie. None of us can. Try saying something untrue.”

Jon looks around. No one can get the words out. He tries it, but while his mind says “I am Lord Eddard’s son,” the lie is stuck in his throat. The truth pains him. While he wonders how Bran could possibly know the rules of the spell they are under, he also thinks to himself, “of course Bran would know.”

Bran begins again, but now Jon can hear the hesitancy in his voice. “In the East, Daenerys Targaryen will hatch three dragons, and the North will join with her to overthrow the Lannisters in return for her alliance through the Long Night.” It’s clear Bran is realizing how fanciful this sounds. It’s not just like one of Old Nan’s stories; it is a story future Old Nan’s will tell their charges. And then there are the things he doesn’t want to say. He doesn’t mention Rickon, or, mercifully, Jon’s future with Sansa. “I will be Lord of Winterfell, and Sansa’s second son  will be my heir. Arya will travel the world and answer the question, ‘what’s west of Westeros?’ And Jon…” Bran stops, and Jon waits.

“Jon is Jon.” Sansa says it like that’s all there is to know. In his gratitude he catches her gaze for a moment before looking away. She struggles on. “He will serve the realm and his family, like he always does.” She finishes with less assurance, but only a slight pause before “his family.” Jon closes his eyes, allowing himself to picture them for a moment before pulling himself back to the present.

Lady Catelyn and Robb are clearly unconvinced, but Jon can see that Lord Eddard believes. And it hits Jon -- his father/uncle knows. He knows the secret that ties this all together, of Jon’s birth and his other father’s obsession with a prophecy. He knows Daenerys has a Dothraki army. And even if he never acknowledged it, before leaving Winterfell he began to suspect something else was growing in the North.

“That’s it then.”

“Ned, you can’t seriously…” Lady Catelyn makes a vague gesture that somehow encompases the absurdity of both their current situation and what will come to pass.

“You don’t believe it?”

Lady Catelyn looks at her husband, and her face crumbles. Somewhere in her heart she knows it is all true. Lord Eddard wraps her in his arms in an attempt to comfort her. 

“Arya, Bran, Rickon and even Sansa will survive.” Guilt punctures Jon’s chest when he hears Rickon’s name, and he clenches his fists to maintain his composure. “And there must be something good that happens? Each of us must have some good memory from the future that we carry with us for the rest of our lives, however long or short they may be?”

His words are part brave, part pleading, but they have a powerful effect. An image swims before Jon’s eyes, and now that it has been conjured, Jon struggles to hold it in. With a sense of dread, he understands that none of them will escape until they have all shared their stories.


	2. Retelling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After finalizing this chapter, I reread it and decided to update the tags. It may get a bit dark.

“What is yours?” Lady Catelyn’s voice challenges her husband. “If we each must have a good memory, what is yours?”

Knowing how little time Lord Eddard has left, her words seem almost cruel to Jon, although he suspects she has lost sight of this in her anguish. Lord Eddard is still holding his wife, but his arms are loose and his gaze far away. Jon knows there will be little comfort in his words.

“After I was betrayed and the Lanisters took me captive, Lord Varys visited me. He told me Sansa was alive. That she pleaded for my life. But no one had seen Arya. When they brought me to the sept to confess, I saw her in the crowd and knew she was free from their grasp.” Lady Catelyn turns to burry her face in her husband's shoulder, realizing what is about to happen. Somehow this, along with the knowledge that his daughter survived, seems to bolster Lord Eddard.

“I told myself that I could protect her. That by sacrificing my honor I could keep Arya and Sansa, safe. It gave me strength, even when Joffery called for my head. I put my neck on the block and thought…” Lord Eddard glances at Jon, but then turns back to his lady wife. “I did all I could to protect my family.”

Lady Catelyn chokes back a sob and cups her husband’s cheek. Jon feels like an intruder and wants to move away, but instead watches as she looks over at Robb and reaches a hand out to him.

“I remember seeing our son after his first battle. I was so scared for him. He was too young. The wars were supposed to be over. I feared he would die, but he didn’t. I saw him and knew he wasn’t a boy any longer. But I also saw that he had the strength to see the fight through. After, whenever I was afraid, I remembered that moment, and told myself to have faith in Robb. That our family would make it.” Her tone turns harsh at the end, the hope of the memory becoming tainted by the bitterness of the truth.

Robb keeps his eyes on his mother, and Jon can see the pain etched in his face. His voice is hoarse and quiet, just barely above a whisper. “A son.” He swallows. “Looking at my wife and hoping we would have a son.”

It was so simple. So pure. This time Jon does look away, allowing his father/not father, his never mother, and his always brother privacy in their grief. It wasn’t fair. A part of Jon has always been jealous of Robb, but Robb’s inherent goodness prevented Jon from ever truly holding it against him. Robb should have had all that Jon one day would. Jon could see him as a wonderful father and great leader. Instead, he died before his time. Part of Jon wishes he could give Robb everything he deserves, but he also knows he would never trade his own family for anything. Not even Robb.

Jon can’t help himself. He looks over at Sansa, and he can see the emotions swirling behind her mask, too many for him to decipher. It is Arya’s voice that finally breaks the silence.

“The Titan of Braavos.” Her smile is wistful. “Old Nan used to tell us the Braavosi feed the pink flesh of little highborn girls to the Titan, and even though I tried to act unimpressed, I jumped the  first time I heard it roar to announce our ship’s arrival.” She was still so young then, Jon thinks, and alone. Not for the first time, Jon wonders at the force of nature that is his sister/cousin. While he and Sansa may inspire more tales and songs, and while Bran’s magical abilities are impossible to deny, Arya has a grit and strength he has never seen matched. It is not a title bestowed on her or a power that was gifted, and Jon finds it far more impressive than anything she learned from the Faceless Men. He would dare anyone to match her, even his wife.

Shit.

His wife? He doesn’t know what to call Sansa, so he stares intently at his boots, willing his mind to focus on Arya and drive the questions away.

“I was afraid, and I believed everyone except Jon was dead. I had nowhere else to go.” She is still smiling, and Jon senses the others are finding it disconcerting. “I wasn’t happy at the time, but later I saw how anything was possible in those minutes before we reached the shore. After, every time I stepped onto a ship or caught site of a new city on the horizon, I remembered the Titan towering overhead.”

She shakes her head, and looks over at Jon. He can tell she doesn’t know how to explain it, but he can see how she chased the wonder of that moment all over the world. He gives her a faint grin and a nod. Not enough to draw scrutiny to himself, but enough so Arya knows he understands. From her look, however, it is clear Lady Catelyn does not. But behind a mother’s confusion Jon sees something else. Relief. This is far from the future she would have chosen for her daughter, but in light of everything else that will come to pass, she at least knows her daughter will live.

“Jon.” It is Rickon, his eyes wide. His little brother, cousin, has been so silent, and Jon isn’t sure he can bare it. He wants to take all the pain away. No child should know what he knows. His father’s death. His mother and brother’s. His own.

Rickon’s body trembles slightly, tiny sobs rocking him as he looks around the room. “The Umber’s turned me over to Ramsey.” Lady Catelyn gasps, and her husband clutches her arm. Jon closes his eyes. He knows what is coming, and can’t understand how this could possibly be the best memory his little brother has left. Not cousin. Brother. He refuses to think of Rickon as anything else.

“They were lined up for battle, Ramsey’s army on one side and Jon’s on the other.” No, no no. Jon wants to scream. To rip off his ears. Anything to stop the truth. “And Ramsey let me go. He told me to run across the field to Jon.” He can hear that Rickon is crying as he speaks. Jon opens his eyes, and his features contort at the sight. “Ramsey started shooting arrows, and they landed all around me. But Jon jumped on his horse and was riding out.” Jon stops trying to hold back the tears. “I could see his face. And I thought I made it, and I would be with Jon. And Sasa too.”

Jon can’t take it. He can feel his fingers reaching out for Rickon on the battlefield. Just a few more feet and they will be together again. He doesn’t realize his real body is mimicking the action until Rickon crashes into him. He lifts the boy off the ground and holds him tight, their aborted reunion finally complete. They are both crying, lost in the moment. He hears a faint buzzing, and some small part of his brain understands explanations are being made. But he does not care. Not when his brother is safe. Not when the weight in his arms and the smell a child’s skin in his nose reminds Jon of his own wild Rickon, who ran off at the first opportunity to join Arya on her travels. Who lived and loved, maybe a little too freely, as this Rickon never will. But first he was a child, and Jon swore he would never fail his son the way he failed his brother. But none of that has happened yet. Jon doesn’t know how, but he knows no matter what he does, this Rickon will still die before he can save him.

Jon wants to beg for forgiveness, but how can he? Nothing can make it right, and there is only one person who will understand this. He opens his eyes to find Lady Catelyn and let himself burn away in her hatred, but instead Sansa is blocking his view.

She embraces him, with Rickon’s small frame nestled between them. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Arya take Bran’s hand and lead him forward, the latter wobbling on legs he is clearly surprised to find still work. Jon tries to speak, but Sansa shushes him, bringing their foreheads together as Arya and Bran further encircle them.

“Jon?” Rickon’s sobs are subsiding, and the boy attempts to comfort his older siblings with a sort of bravery that is only found in children. “What do you remember?”

Jon’s eyes snap open, and he sees his own panic reflected in Sansa’s face. The moment is shattered, and everyone breaks apart, watching him with apprehension. Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times, still clinging to Rickon like a shield. But Lady Catelyn sweeps in, and Jon can’t blame her for needing her son close. Lord Eddard places a hand on his boy, reassuring himself that, at least for now, he is still alive.

Jon is alone and unable to stop the himself.  “My first child.” A son. It is literally Robb’s dream, but Jon is the one who will live it. Almost. There is one detail that, once revealed, will make the truth so much worse. He hasn’t yet voiced the full memory, and he can feel it pushing its way up his throat.

He tries to hold his lips closed, and searches the room for help. Sansa has understandably retreated. Arya and Bran stand awkwardly, while Lord Eddard is unreadable. But it is Lady Catelyn’s fury that pulls his focus, and this time Jon allows himself to meet her anger with his own. How dare she. He spent his childhood living in shame, and gave up on having children before he ever knew what that meant. Even if he was Lord Eddard’s bastard, he could have carved out a good life with a family, but she made him believe he had nothing to offer. Why? What threat could an insignificant bastard’s children ever pose to her trueborn babes? Why should he care what she thinks? Why shouldn’t he throw the truth in her face?

Then he notices Robb. He has never seen Robb jealous. There never was anything for him to be jealous of. And even in this moment, Jon can see that Robb feels guilty for the emotion. He doesn’t understand that you can love someone absolutely and still feel a hole that can only be filled by something they have and you do not. It is not fair.

They know Jon is not finished, and finally the words overflow. “Sucking on my wife’s perfect teat.” He feels relief. Sansa’s head snaps up and her cheeks flush, while Arya snickers. Jon knows he should feel embarrassed or ashamed, and he would, if he wasn’t so damn proud of himself for not saying Sansa’s name, despite it being on the tip of his tongue. He doubts she sees it that way, so he suppresses his grin. Her breasts are perfect. Or they will be. He remembers that this Sansa is still a girl, and once again he feels as filthy as Lady Catelyn believes him to be.

“Winterfell rebuilt,” Theon blurts out. Jon can see the whites of eyes as they dart around the room, pupils dilated with anxiety. He forgot Theon is still with them. In the future, Jon will spend a lot of time forgetting about Theon. He killed Robb, but saved Sansa. The latter will never cancel out the former, but it will allow Theon to keep his head. Once he makes peace with this, Jon won’t spare much thought for the Ironborn. None of them will.

Theon looks down and swallows nervously. “I’ll see it, after Bran finishes rebuilding it.” He is hypersensitive to the mixture of accusation and confusion directed towards him, and he tries to explain. “I grew up here. It’s the only childhood home I really know.” But Winterfell is not Theon’s home, as Theon himself ensured with his actions. Jon takes a moment to actually consider Theon. Why has he reverted into Reek? He won’t stay that way. Theon will never again be the arrogant boy of their youth, but at some point he will pull himself together, transforming into something, if not good, at least better.

But then Jon sees Robb, Rickon and their parents. These four ghosts that will haunt Theon for the rest of his life now stand before him, and they do not forgive. Jon supposes he should be grateful to Theon for drawing the room’s attention, but it is hard to muster positive feelings for him. 

Bran is either a better person, which is likely, or he knows they must continue if they are going to reach the end. “Sansa?” he asks gently.

Her face reminds Jon of the time he and Robb tried to steal extra pies from the kitchen. When they were caught, Robb attempted to stuff the evidence in his mouth, but his cheeks swelled, forcing him to spit it out, mostly on Jon.

“No.” She shakes her head, speaking carefully, but unable to keep the croak out of her voice. “You go Bran.” A sense of dread begins to build in Jon’s gut, but he can’t leave, and he can’t look away.

“It will be alright,” Bran coaxes, the way one might speak to a frightened animal.

“No.” Sansa repeats, lengthening the “oh” and allowing it to resonate. “No, it won’t.”

“Sansa.” Lady Catelyn joins in, the worry clear in her voice. “Whatever it is, we will…” she looks around, and Jon pities her. Whatever comforting words she wants to say about Sansa’s future, she will not be alive to help her daughter. “We love you.”

The words spill out of Sansa’s mouth, as though their meaning will be lost if she can only say them fast enough. “The first time I take my third husband to bed, before we are wed, when we think we will both die the following day and we try to fit an eternity into one night.”

Jon feels the wind knocked out of him. Oh gods, that night. In the weeks proceeding it, refugees streamed out of the North, taking whatever they could carry through the snow and ice. Those who either couldn’t undertake the journey, or waited too long, made their way to Winterfell. Jon knew Sansa would never leave, but he had to try. If she would only ride south and never look back. She said she didn’t want to go. When he asked her what she did want, she told him she wanted his honor. If they survived, she would give it back to him.

Jon groans as the memory washes over him. She had stared at him defiantly, and he answered by crossing the room and kissing her roughly. For a second he worried he was too aggressive, but she fisted her hands in his hair and met his mouth with her lips and tongue and teeth. He needed her skin, but winter meant they both were wearing too many clothes. They challenged each other as they worked out of the layers, masking any lingering fear of rejection by daring the other to stop.

Finally he got her out of her smallclothes, down to her shift, and on the bed. She lifted her hips so he could work the fabric to her waist. His lips started at her inner thighs, and his tongue found its way to that place where she moaned the loudest, demanding more. He didn’t think it could get any better, and then she cried out his name. When she was utterly spent, he looked up to find a nipple pressing through the fabric of her shift, trapped between her fingers, her face utterly wanton. “I need you Jon.”

And with that he was kissing her again, and sliding into her, and nothing had ever felt so good and so right. He managed to get her fully bare, and for a moment she looked ashamed before her eyes hardened. It made no sense. She was perfect. And then he saw the scars. He spoke without thinking, too lost in her to worry over the right words. “You look like a warrior.” It was true. She was fierce, and he knew he was hers for as long as she was willing to keep him. She smiled and then gasped as they lost themselves again.

He had once promised himself that he would never father a bastard, but that night he prayed to whatever gods had not abandoned him to give them a child. He would happily ride to his death in the morning if she would live, carrying a piece of him inside her. They didn’t sleep much that night, but the following day he was warmed by the image of her astride him, beneath him, and beside him, taking all she could until he was wrung dry. Although neither of them knew it then, they did make their first child that night. And nothing would ever be the same after.

These are not the images he should be recalling while standing next to her father, mother and older brother. Or when this version of her is before him, not the woman who will share his bed, children and life. Luckily, everyone is too shocked to pay him any mind. He can see present and future Sansa warring inside her, and it looks like young Sansa is winning. As much as future Sansa refuses to be shamed for her experience and choices, she never had to face disappointing her mother, or her father. Although her ladylike upbringing left her utterly unprepared for the cruelness she was destined to encounter, she always idealized her parents, and he knew she wanted them to be proud of her.

And then Arya begins to laugh. It’s not a giggle or a chuckle, but big belly laughs that fill the room. Sansa is horrified, as is her mother. Lord Eddard clearly wishes he could erase the last few minutes from his mind, and Robb looks like he is about to be sick. But Bran snickers too. It’s Arya, though, who admonishes their family when she is finally able to catch her breath.

“You should be glad she is so enthusiastic about him.” Jon begins fighting a battle with the redness creeping up his cheeks. “Their seven children are the only grandchildren you will ever have.”

Sansa chortles softly, and Jon tries to look at her without looking at her. Behind her pained expression there is something else, the twinkle of a smile. She avoids his gaze, but her blush deepens and he can see her lips quiver. His heart swells.

“You and Bran?” Lady Catelyn’s voice is uncertain, and Jon doesn’t blame her. There is only so much a person wants to know.

“No,” Bran states. Arya snorts. “I was in the room when Sansa birthed her first. That was more than enough. They’re cute and all, but I am never having one of my own.”

Sansa snaps. “I am sorry I wanted someone in the room with me who I knew….” The bickering begins, each sister sliding into her familiar role.

“I am pretty sure you had another willing volunteer...”

“A woman.”

“Brienne.”

“Really, Arya?”

“I’m just saying.”

Sansa’s voice breaks slightly. “You’re my sister. Mother was gone…”

“I’m glad I was there. And you know I’d die for my nieces and nephews. I just don’t know why anyone chooses to go through that more than once.”

“How is it that you, of all people, are squeamish about this?”

“How are you not? Besides, why do I need one of my own when you have plenty to spare?”

“Yes, I appreciate you abducting…”

“I hardly abducted him. And you should be glad I took him with me. At least he had someone to look after him.” 

“Did you just say that with a straight face?”

“It’s more than I had.” Their Rickon was young when he joined Arya on her adventures, but not as young as Arya had been. And as reckless as Arya could seem, she was fiercely protective of her family.

Sansa softens. Arya always seems invincible, but no one goes through that much alone without it leaving some sort of mark. “I was always glad you two were close, I just wish you could have convinced him to wait a little longer…”

Their squabbling is oddly comforting, until Jon feels Lord Eddards eyes on him, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. Now, instead of actually watching Sansa and Arya, he  pretends to watch them, hoping to mask his growing unease.

“We are all glad for Sansa’s dedication to rebuilding the family,” Bran teases, and Sansa hides her face in her hands.

“I think that’s enough.” Lady Catelyn’s voice is tight. She tries to give her oldest daughter a smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace.

Once again, it is Rickon who comes to the rescue. “What about you?” he asks Bran. “Is yours good? These are supposed to be happy stories, but they are not making everyone happy.”

  
Bran’s smile is bittersweet, but his eyes sparkle. “Yes. Mine is a good one. Do you want to see it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t intend for this chapter to get as explicit as it did. Jon’s mind just got a bit stuck in that memory. I actually took some out. The tone didn’t feel right so soon after Rickon. I’m still not entirely happy with it. Also, sorry about Rickon. And I don’t hate Theon. There are just some bridges you can never fully rebuild. One chapter left, and maybe a short epilogue.


	3. Bran's Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue is only a few hundred words, so I tacked it onto this chapter rather than making it separate. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: I put a quick update into the epilogue to make it clearer. Thanks for the feedback!

In a blink they are inside Bran’s memory. Jon isn’t sure how it happened, if it is a part of the spell or connected to Bran’s greensight, but the great hall of Winterfell is filled with the laughter of his cousins, his children, and his grandchildren. He remembers that night, and is amazed to be confronted with his older self. A lifetime of brooding has etched deep lines in his face, but so have the years of laughter, and he can see the crinkles around his eyes as he sits next to his youngest child, heavy with what will be his final grandchild. He finds Sansa in the crowd, her hair having gone white with age but never losing a touch of fire. Gods, he thinks, even time cannot dampen her. She never stops being captivating.

“It’s the last time we are all at Winterfell.” Bran purses his lips when he realizes that, in fact, they are not all there. “The Starks who lived and Sansa’s children,” he corrects himself. Robb, Lord Eddard, and Lady Catelyn are looking around in wonder at the faces, so achingly familiar and yet entirely new. Rickon chases the apparitions of his grand-nieces and nephews, and when he cannot touch them he makes a game out of skipping through their play. Jon isn’t sure if it is authentic, or a defense mechanism, but either way he is relieved to see his brother smile.

“They don’t know it is the last time we will all be together. Only I do.” Jon isn’t sure who gasps, but Bran chuckles. “Not like that. The world is big, and it’s hard to get us all in one place.” He turns wistful. “I remember the first time I saw this night. I spent years waiting for it.” Bran’s life must have been so strange, Jon thinks. While everyone else struggles with this spell, being able to see both the future and the past will be normal for Bran.

A loud guffaw causes everyone to stare at a dark haired man, just beginning to show grey streaks. All except Bran, who looks at his own parents. “Brynden, your first grandchild” How long did it take them to agree to call him Brynden? Jon was determined to name his children after those they had lost, as a tribute and a reminder. Sansa, however, did not want to be haunted by the ghosts of their past, or at least, not of those closest to them. In the end, politics stepped in. Brynden was supposed to inherit the Iron Throne, and he needed a name that linked him to more than just the Starks. Once they settled on Brynden, with its echoes of the Builder, the Blackfish, and even the Bloodraven, it was hard to remember why they disagreed.

“He met a woman from Essos who was visiting with her merchant father, and renounced all his claims and titles to run off with her to his aunt’s court.” For a family with a reputation for stoicism, Stark men have a knack for making rash decisions when it comes to women, and not just the ones with Targaryen blood. Jon lists them in his mind: his uncle Brandon with his affairs, his brother/cousin Robb, Brynden, his Rickon, and of course Jon’s other father, who wasn’t a Stark, but Lyanna was. And Jon knows he must add his own name. What would he have done for Sansa? In the end, it was Lord Eddard, despite the belief that Jon was his bastard, who earned them their reputation.

“And the child Brynden is showing off is his first grandchild.” Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn are hovering nearby. At Bran’s words she glances up, before running the tips of her fingers along the image of the toddler’s forehead. Her first great-great-grandchild; Jon’s first great-grandchild. He wants to share this moment with her, but there is too much history between them. Instead he finds present Sansa, who watches with a rapturous look on her face: the one she only shares with her children and her children’s children.

“The Crown Princess Eddara might not have made it, but she refused to delay meeting him.” Sansa snorts, and shares a look with Jon before catching herself and turning away. That name. Whatever disagreements they had about Brynden intensified with their second child. At some point during her pregnancy they made-up “Eddara” to diffuse the tension and gently mock each other. But then she came early, and they were not ready. It stuck, and their beautiful babe took what Sansa called one of the world’s ugliest names. They tried to find a nickname, anything, but even as an infant she was too regal. Later, her siblings would call her “Queen” and “your Grace” when they felt she was putting on airs, but in hindsight (forward sight?) it felt like she was always destined to rule.

“Princess?” It’s Robb.

“She will inherit the Iron Throne from her father, since Brynden gave up his claim.” Bran’s words only increase Robb’s confusion, but Jon can feel Lord Eddard’s eyes watching him. “By this point she has already taken over many of the crown’s duties, and she won’t be able to stay for long. She brought her son with her,” Bran nods towards the tall boy with the deep violet eyes, “but left her hotheaded Dornish husband and her daughter in Kings Landing.”

“Her fath..” Robb tries to cut in, but Arya stops him.

“They always were the oddest pair. Eddara isn’t just prissy, she’s practically frigid. And then she insists on marrying a half-mad adventure seeker. Gods, I might have taken him for myself if I was younger.” 

“Good luck with that,” Sansa teases her sister, and the two grin at each other while the rest look on in confusion. Arya will spend too much time on ships and in seedy locations to ever speak like a lady, but her dedication to her nieces and nephews is absolute.

“They should be the  _ Song of Ice and Fire _ .” The words slip out, and Arya can’t take them back. Until now they have managed to avoid the story of the Long Night, of Daenerys and her dragons, Jon with Sansa, Arya and her faces, and Bran in the trees.

“No. I don’t want my children to ever suffer like that.”

“And they won’t,” Bran answers Sansa. Then he smiles at his older self, sitting in a large chair, bolstered by pillows and deep in conversation with two others: one in northern garb and the other wearing wildling furs. “The twins,” he nods in their direction, “my heir Joer and Brienne.” 

They had been inseparable from birth, their personalities living up to their namesakes. Joer came first, and therefore inherited Winterfell. His moniker was a tribute to House Mormont, whose loyalty to the Starks never failed. When the time came for him to go North and get to know his people, it seemed right that his protective younger sister would join him. No one expected her to allow, or encourage, one of the Freefolk to steal her, Tormund’s grandson by Munda and Longspear no less. It had caused a scandal among the Northern houses, not to mention horrifying the tall woman who commanded their Kingsguard, but in the end the union served to bind former enemies together. But that future, where northerners and freefolk are allies, may seem even more fanciful than dragons and white walkers to those who didn’t live it. Bran doesn’t try to explain how Brienne’s wilding children will be like sibling’s Joer’s.

The ghost of future Arya marches right through them, and Lady Catelyn steps back, alarmed. She had not recognized her own daughter. Dressed in men’s clothes, a dagger at her waist and her greyed hair roughly cut and pulled back, she looks everything like the wanderer she is, and nothing like the lady her mother tried to make her. She steps through Theon, and seats herself on one of the tables, her feet planted on the bench between her blacksmith consort and her youngest nephew. In the memory, older Sansa makes to object, but Arya meets her challenge with a raised eyebrow, refusing to budge.

Theon’s manages to make himself even smaller, and Jon notices his sadness. His future self is not present. He would never be invited to such a reunion. Jon knows what it is like to want to be a Stark with all your heart, but Theon will never be one.

“And that is Rickon,” Bran gestures to the rough man with the wild, red hair. Tormund liked to claim Rickon is really one of his, but there is no denying that he has Jon’s eyes. Jon had insisted on his name, and finally Sansa relented. She feared the spectre that had hung over her husband since the battle for Winterfell, but holding their Rickon in his arms healed him. 

Bran chortles, “Sansa and Arya were arguing about him earlier. He will have Arya’s taste for adventure, but also a healthy… admiration for powerful women. He brought two of his five bastards with him,” Lady Catelyn looks pained, “although, amazingly, neither will leave behind more before they depart.” Bastard. The word that tormented Jon as a child is the same one that Rickon’s children will wear with pride, claiming the renown of the Starks and Targaryens, but avoiding the constraints of their legacy.

A noise causes Jon’s Rickon to look up, but he quickly averts his eyes before being sucked in. “Raya,” Bran offers. She has cornered her increasingly alarmed sister by law, and is currently pressing for details about modern retellings of Lyseni folklore. “While the wars caused many customs to be relaxed, the Citadel will still be dominated by men. But even they realized quickly that it is best not to challenge her.” Everything about Raya was sharp, from her mind to her temper. She worried little about what others thought of her, which combined with her intellect made most people nervous. Oddly, she got along well with Sam, and served as his primary editor when he wrote the definitive record of the War for the Dawn, the infamous  _ Song of Ice and Fire _ . Jon hated those titles, and Sam might have used other names, but Raya would have none of it. She said to call them anything else would be a distortion, and asserted that the crown had no authority over the truth. As usual, she won.

“She enjoys complaining that, despite her life’s work, she will mostly be remembered as the chronicler of Arya and Rickon’s travels. But she knows that writing popular narratives will draw attention to her more scholarly studies of history and mythology. Plus, I think she enjoys needling her brother. She’s the only one who can rattle him. She likes to remind him that she controls how he will be remembered, even more than he likes claiming responsibility for her fame.”

Bran’s looks around the room, his eyes finally resting on Jon’s older self and the miniature Sansa beside him. “Catelyn.” Jon doesn’t realize he spoke aloud until he sees the others staring at him, but Bran picks up the story before they can notice his distress. Only Lord Eddard and Sansa keep their focus on Jon.

“The last of my nieces and nephews,” Bran informs them. Jon had been shocked when, after her earlier aversion, Sansa was adamant about naming their final babe after her late mother. Somehow she knew it would be a girl. Jon was ashamed that a small part of him didn’t trust himself with a child named for a woman who despised him, but he couldn’t think of a way to object without revealing the truth. Later, he would come to suspect that Sansa always knew, just as she knew he needn’t have worried. From the moment she was born, Jon adored Cate. He doted on his perfect, little lady who loved stories, dancing and embroidery. It was Sansa who worried Cate was too fanciful, that it would leave her open to the hard lessons Sansa had once learned. But Jon couldn’t help himself.

“Everyone assumed she would stay at court and be a patron of the arts and the poor. But in the great family tradition, she fell in love instead. With a foreign singer, no less.” Bran directs the last part at a man playing the harp, while present Sansa gives an exasperated sigh. When their daughter eloped Sansa blamed Jon, and he blamed himself. It was exactly like one of the songs Cate loved. She took one of her ladies with her, both caught up in the romance of it all, although Sansa suspected the woman was also a bit enamored of Cate herself. Jon had been furious at the man, and ready to inflict any manner of torture upon his good-son at the first sign that he disrespected or harmed his daughter. But he never did. Looking at the pair seven, nearly eight, children later, and they are as in love as ever.

“She will be renown the world over for her needlework. They say she learned from Sansa how to alter fate. That if she gifts someone a maiden’s cloak, they will be wed, and if she gifts them a shroud, they will die.” This time both Sansa and Arya scoff. Sansa’s skill was born out of necessity, when she had to constantly remake herself to stay alive. Secretly, however, Jon knew Sansa relished people believing she had magical powers, even as she pointed out that she would only make a maiden cloak for someone who was about to be married. As for the shroud, after Littlefinger’s execution they wrapped him in an old piece of cloth Sansa had with her. Despite the fact that she had not done anything to it, and the fact that she was the one to call for his death, the rumors took hold.

“Just think,” Arya jests, “you and mother spent years trying to turn me into a lady, and all you had to do was give me a dress.”

“I’m fairly certain I made you several.”

“You even got me into one for Eddara’s wedding.”

“I think Eddara did that.” She had. She begged and Arya relented, to everyone’s shock. After, no one dared tell Arya that the prim and proper Eddara had made a bet with her siblings.

“I still don’t understand.” Robb looks overwhelmed, and so do his parents next to him. “Earlier you said we supported Daenerys Targaryen to defeat the Lannisters, but Sansa’s children will inherit the Iron Throne? And what about Jon?” Robb looks over at him, and Jon can feel Robb trying to suppress the hint of bitterness in his voice. “You said you had wife and a child.”

“Viserys,” Lady Catelyn offers, ignoring the question about Jon.

“No,” Bran answers, “he will never set foot in Westeros again.”

“Then who?” 

Jon shifts uncomfortably, and he senses rather than sees Sansa and Arya doing the same. Only Bran remains calm.

“Rhaegar’s son.” Lord Eddard is hesitant, as though he doesn’t quite believe the truth himself.

“The Mountain killed Aegon…”

“He had another son.” Even though Bran’s memory continues to play out around them, a silence seems to descend. Jon finds himself desperate to hear his not-father’s words, the ones he kept from Jon while he was alive.

“After the sack of Kings Landing, I took Howland Reed and went to free my sister from the Tower of Joy.” Lord Eddard’s voice breaks. “But we were too late.”

“Ned, we know this.” Lady Catelyn’s has no effect on her husband, and he carries on without pause.

“There was so much blood. On the sheets and her shift.” Jon tries not to picture it, but he can’t help himself. His mother. The first life he took. Sansa starts to move towards him, but she stops when their eyes meet.

“She made me promise.” Lord Eddard finally focuses on his wife, and her face goes slack as she begins to understand.

“Robert would have killed him if he found out. I had to protect him. It was her last wish, and there was no one else I could trust, not even Howland.” For a second Jon thinks Lady Catelyn will slap her husband, but even as she regains herself a terrifying rage takes over her features. 

“I didn’t know you then, Cat, and after, you hated him. If you saw him as a threat then, what would you have done if you knew the truth?” Now he is begging, or as close to begging as Lord Eddard can get. “If you knew the danger we were in?” Everyone is frozen, except Robb, who hasn’t quite put it together yet. “What would you have had me do?”

Jon has to give her credit. Even now, when she could answer with righteous anger, Lady Catelyn cannot lie. “What I always wanted you to do. Send him away.”

And with that something deflates inside Jon. It’s not a bad feeling though, more of a letting go. There is no scenario where he would have been fully accepted into Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn’s brood. And even if Jon believes he had a right to know sooner, that they all did, it’s a relief to finally hear an explanation from the only father he has ever known, barebones as the telling may be. It also helps to be surrounded by the images of his children when he hears it, who Jon will love the way he always wanted to be loved.

Jon expected to feel Lady Catelyn’s wrath, but he should have known that the revelation of his parentage was insignificant when weighed against her marriage to Lord Eddard. She is shaking, and Jon suspects it is with heartache as well as fury. Lord Eddard takes a chance and wraps his arms around her, and she allows it, sobbing into his chest.

“What does everyone know that I don’t?” There is a slight panic in Robb’s tone.

“Lyanna died giving birth to Rhaegar’s son, and our father hid the babe to protect him from King Robert. When the wars are over, he will be legitimized and sit on the Iron Throne.” Bran’s words are calm. Too calm, Jon realizes. He is trying to soften the shock, and Jon is grateful.

“Sansa’s husband.”

“Yes.”

“But who…” Jon can see the realization began to dawn, and Robb switches tactics, trying to force it down. But he is now fighting a losing battle.

“But that would mean…” Robbs eyes shift to Jon in horror. “You are our brother...”

“Not your brother.” This time words come easily to Jon’s mouth as he desperately raises his hands in surrender.

“Although if we need further evidence that he is a Targaryen…”

“Not helping, Arya.”  Sansa’s response is agitated.

“I don’t understand,” Rickon joins in.

“You fucked my sister?”

“Robb.” Lady Catelyn’s admonishment is automatic, but in giving it she also picks up on why her son is upset. “Sansa’s story…” She turns to Jon in disgust.

“Remember, he can’t plant all those grandkids in Sansa’s belly if you castrate him.” Jon wants to throttle Arya for her japes, but he is too busy trying to position her between himself and Lady Catelyn. Arya initially had a hard time adjusting to Jon and Sansa’s relationship. But then she realized she could unnerve both of them with crude jokes. Brynden’s birth took most of the edge out of her antics, but even the gentler version never failed to fluster Jon and Sansa. However, Arya does not to appreciate that the stakes are different now. Faced with her parents and Robb, Sansa looks anguished.

Lady Catelyn notices and nearly spits at Jon. “What did you do to her…”

“Cat.” Lord Eddard’s voice does little to calm his wife.

“Don’t ‘Cat’ me. You indulged that boy and now he will defile our daughter.”

“He is hardly the one who defiled me.” Jon hears echoes of his future wife in Sansa’s tone, challenging anyone who claimed her past made her unworthy. He is glad her present self has tapped into her anger. It makes her seem less vulnerable than the youthful body before him appears. “Defiled. Gods, I hate that word.”

“There has to be a way to fix this.” It is Robb, and Sansa lashes out at him.

“Fix my children because they’re Jon’s?”

“And so the rest of us can live.” Robb’s words cause everyone to stop. The guilt wells up in Jon’s chest again, but something even more powerful overrides it.

“No.” All eyes focus on Jon. He meets Robb’s gaze. He owes his brother that much. “Not even for you. Not even for..” Jon swallows, not wanting to say the name but knowing that failing to do so would be an unforgivable act of cowardice. “Not even for Rickon.” As much as he hates himself, there is a limit to how much shame he can feel. Jon will do anything to protect his family, no matter how unforgivable.

The betrayal Robb feels is palatable, and beside him Lady Catelyn goes dangerously still. Lord Eddard’s expression is stoney, but there is a hint of something else. Jon wants to think it is a sorrowful pride, but knows that can’t be it.

Just when he thinks all is lost, Jon feels someone take his hand. He is shocked to realize it is Sansa. “I won’t give up my children.” She speaks softly, but with a touch of steel.

“No, the future is written. But that’s the point of all this, isn’t it?” Jon isn’t sure who Bran is speaking to. “This is my most prized memory.” Bran looks around, soaking it all in. “I can’t.” He falters. “Even if I could, I have to protect them.” He says the last part in a whisper, as though he is willing his brother and his parents to understand. And then his voice turns hard.

“I think we’ve seen enough.” The fortune teller materializes at Bran’s words. Or maybe she was always there? The world goes black before Jon can ask.

  
  


**Epilogue**

Jon starts, and he isn’t sure why, as though he just woke from a dream that is already receding from his mind. He can see Robb pause before continuing to lead the fortune teller out of the hall. Her eyes are fearful, and Jon follows them, bewildered to see they are focused on Bran. The boy’s unreadable expression is disquieting, and Jon watches as it fades into confusion. Whatever comment Theon was about to make dies on his lips as he shoots a nervous glance around the room. Rickon begins to cry, and Lady Catelyn gathers him in her arms. She gives her husband an accusatory look, which Jon feels is unfair. It is hardly Lord Eddard’s fault that Theon is an idiot.

Still. A strangeness settles over them, and it takes several days for it to fully recede. In the meantime, Jon catches Robb watching him with an odd expression. Surprisingly, Sansa gives him a shy smile. Even more surprising, Jon finds himself easily smiling back.

Not knowing what to do, Jon gravitates towards Arya, grateful that whatever is happening doesn’t seem to affect his relationship with his sister. He finds her by the Heart Tree practicing with a bow and arrow she pilfered from the armory and suggests that maybe it’s best not to anger the gods. Instead, they sneak into the wolfswood. Jon is glad to get away and spend the day shooting and aimlessly wandering. They didn’t any bring food with them, not planning to stay out long, but Arya manages to take down a small hare, and Jon shows her how to skin and roast it. There isn’t much meat on the animal, but it’s enough to sustain them until the sun begins to set. Jon is wary as they make their way back to the castle. It taunts him, both calling him home and denying him a place.

Soon, he thinks. He is not sure what is coming, but he can feel a fire waking in his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support and comments! You make me better. I wish I could have incorporated all your amazing ideas. I did change the end a bit based on feedback. Bran was always the one to pull them out of the spell, but I decided to make it clear that even if they could change the future (they can’t), they wouldn’t choose to do so. It made things a bit sadder at the end though. If it feels a bit abrupt, it’s because I really didn’t want to delve too deeply into what it would mean for Jon, Sansa, Arya and Bran to look Ned, Cat, Robb and Rickon in the eye and say they couldn’t risk the lives of the next generation. I started going down that road, and it got very, very dark.
> 
> I am new to writing fic, and while I am in no way up for anything long, I should have some time over the holidays if anyone has a shorter one-shot/drabble prompt in need of a(n inexperienced) writer.
> 
> EDIT: I tried to convey in the epilogue that no one remembers what they saw, although they have a lingering emotional response. Let me know if that is unclear. Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any typos or errors. This is un-beta’d. Also, verb tenses really do suck. I experimented a bit, but decided it made the most sense if the main action is in the present tense, while memories, including (most) memories of the future, are in the past tense. I did it this way because the characters recall future events the same way they do the past ones. I hope it wasn’t too confusing.


End file.
